I arrive alone and I’m expected by nobody. I know no familiar face will welcome me in the arrivals hall but I still look around in the futile hope for a pleasant surprise. I sometimes like to watch strangers arrive and families reunite around me. But I don’t linger too long this time. London’s frantic search for belonging engulfs me immediately. I’m overwhelmed with a deep and familiar sense of restless longing.
This is what this city is all about, right? Wanting.
On the train taking me from the airport to the heart of the city, I’m still safe in the community of other travellers who just got off planes and still lug suitcases along. I indulge in the comfort of their company knowing that we’re alike by virtue of having recently returned from someplace else.
We’ve all just returned to London and returning to London is not something you want to do alone. The experience of returning to London requires a lot of gentle support and one has to get it from whomever is around.
I start a conversation with the stranger sitting on the seat across from me as he places a bouquet of beautiful roses on the seat next to him. Starting a conversation with a stranger on public transport is a very un-London thing to do, I’ve learned. But in the place I return from, people are warmer, and open and want to talk to you. They have infected me with their warm curiosity and I want to emulate the simple ease with which they connect to people.
I compliment the flowers and the stranger responds warmly enough to encourage me to ask a question. I ask if they are for someone special. Perhaps someone he hasn’t seen in a while. They are for his mother, he says. He’s visiting her for her birthday. “Oh, how lovely!”
I’m safe. I’m content. Once I’m out of the train, my fellow travellers scatter amongst the other passengers rushing through the station. Our temporary community is dissolved in London’s cold anonymity. Too many people crowd on the platform and not one of them with a single thought for me. All of a sudden, I’m in danger. Not a single one of the people around me cares about my well-being. I belong nowhere again. I’m scared and weary. I’m also aware of how exhausting it is to be scared and weary so often. My whole being is fixed on the remaining journey, and I invest every drop of energy into making my way home.
The phrase “make my way home” seems like a suitably dramatic way to describe what I’m doing. With every return to London, I revisit and reinvent my justification for calling it home.
What is home at the end of the day? A return to London, usually, comes along with the departure from people I love. So with every return, I weigh the burden of leaving loved ones behind against the promise of the city. Every time, I compile a familiar list of pros and cons. And every time the list of cons rests heavy in my chest. With every return, I will myself to expand on the list of pros but the additions always feel frivolous and insignificant. “The lido will be great for a swim tomorrow.”
I make it home with energy to spare. Somewhere along the way, I have found new strength and acceptance of my lack of belonging and I face my empty flat with gratitude. Maybe I will go for that swim tomorrow.
This is what this city is all about, right? Wanting.
